


a call that cuts a line from me to you

by ghost_suit



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slice of Life, esoteric existentialism?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_suit/pseuds/ghost_suit
Summary: Through the years the resistance crumbles and reforms, things are lost and gained and through it all they still manage to get married--twice.





	a call that cuts a line from me to you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spiritassassin fanwork exchange of summer 2017. Written for batdad on tumblr. Thanks to supernaturalbc for the feedback and editing because I kept working on this at silly times of night and made very foolish mistakes.

Chirrut reached out, in search of Baze’s hand. Finding it he turned it open, holding him at the wrist. With a fingertip he drew a line across the calluses, and found the stark line dipping down to the centre of his hand. He felt Baze's fingers curl inwards, grazing the inside of his own wrist. Chirrut straightened up at the delicacy of the touch, shoulders squaring out and his mouth pressing into a tight line.

"What are you doing?" Baze asked, voice sounding rough. But he didn't withdraw. Despite all his predilection towards protest and reflexive oppositions, Baze never pulled away and always instead reflexively sunk into his touch—Chirrut smirked and tugged Baze closer. Toe-to-toe with their hands between them he could feel the heat rising off of Baze's skin and could smell the sweat and salt. From the centre of Baze's open palm he drew a line going up over his wrist, listening for the man's breath to catch. He drew out the touch slowly, feeling the tendons in Baze’s wrist flex as he closed his hand. His breath drew in, slow and measured, used to Chirrut’s teasing but not immune. When his breath held, Chirrut slid the palm of his hand up Baze’s arm, following the lines of his thick arms.

"I would marry you," Chirrut proclaimed steadily.

At that, Baze huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh but he bent forward just enough that Chirrut could feel his warm breath on his skin.

"Marry me," he muttered lowly. "We aren't even supposed to be doing this."

Chirrut pushed his face closer, the tip of his nose tracing out Baze's. The familiar weight of Baze's hand rested on his hip.

"The Force has always guided us together," Chirrut countered.

There was a pause and Chirrut thought that Baze might argue further. Their relationship was frowned upon by some but not of concern to most provided they behaved with discretion and did not distract one another from their duties. Perhaps the Guardians had been different in the past, before the Imperial Army had started their frequent raids on the Temple. True they were still directed towards immaterial lives—easy because there were so few resources available with the Imperial Army constantly disrupting trade to the city—but that other tenement so upheld by the Jedi to keep emotional connections to others at an ascetic distance was more lenient.

"Yes," Baze finally agreed. Chirrut let their hands fall and leaned forwards, needing that space to close between them. The thread that tied them tightened something a little different between them tonight. He sought out Baze's throat, grazing the skin with his teeth. Baze made an indignant grunting noise but curled inwards and moving a hand under Chirrut's chin to guide his mouth against his.

Baze's kisses were always gentle and contrary to his gruff disposition. If he wanted, Chirrut could easily goad him into a more spirited exchange but tonight he wanted to savor the feeling of belonging that came with that specific tenderness reserved for him. With Baze’s hand pressed against his throat and the hot breeze coming off the sand making the air feel closer, Chirrut thought he might burst, the feeling twined between them almost so close that it was overwhelming. Chirrut drew back slightly and nipped at Baze’s lip, ending the kiss abruptly and jarring them back into the moment.

 _"Ow,”_  Baze grumbled. Chirrut felt the man’s hand leave his throat to touch where he’d been bitten.

“I want to talk to you,” Chirrut said, moving back with a grin, “about how I want to marry you.”

Chirrut turned and started walking down the hall towards the garden.  This time of evening there were few others around, making the path easier and requiring only a minimal effort in keeping his senses around him. He’d been here for as long as he could remember and with that memory he could navigate every spare space of the Temple with ease. A blind orphan, abandoned on the Temple steps; a sympathetic story he had no memory of being a part of. This had always been his home and he could feel it in the stone and from the lives of the people around him. But something not far ahead was already reaching back, telling him that this was not permanent. Something dark in the Force was creeping closer.

“We can’t get married. We’ll be asked to leave,” Baze said with finality. Baze was older when Chirrut brought him to the Temple. Baze knew loss in a way that he did not. In turn, he invested his heart wholly in his new home. If not for Chirrut, his entire purpose in life would solely be to serve the Temple as a fully initiated guardian. Chirrut didn’t bother pointing out that if they were to follow the true traditions of the guardians that they should not be involved with one another as they were at all.

“Want to; can’t,” Chirrut thought aloud. “The Imperial Army is bringing something dark. Even before they reach us, it is already coming into the temple and changing it. I want to take something before it’s taken away from us.”

"We aren't meant to possess anything," Baze murmured beside him. Chirrut nodded and paused. They’d reached the garden. Tonight it was quiet, no ships overhead; not even their own. The trading port had been overtaken, the Imperials demonstrating their power. Around the garden he could hear soft murmuring, and the shaking of the barren branches. They’d already repurposed the vaporators when the trees stopped bearing fruit the year before.

"Why does marriage means possession?" Chirrut countered. "I am not possessed by you, nor you by me.”

His connection with Baze did not manifest as the response to a demand of fate; at most their fate was always to choose or not choose one another, as it was with everyone. It was only that what they chose with one another was not the same as what they chose with others. He'd always chosen Baze with inarguable clarity for as long as he'd known him; the first time he pulled him from the crowd, screams and smoke choking the air, and brought him to the temple. There were some you met in life who you would know were your family. That day, he could sense in the chaos Baze as a steady ember while the rest devoured hungrily.

The Force, when he felt it move and beckon, grew stronger around Baze. That had remained true since those earlier days. That was already twelve years ago; he’d already known Baze more than half his life.

"What is marriage to you then?" Baze asked.

Chirrut tilted his head. What was it? It was a feeling he had, a sense of their relationship that he wanted to solidify somehow. Nothing was permanent around them; though he did not fear the idea of Baze choosing to leave him. Nor did he fear losing him; the way Baze fought and moved through the growing violence of the city around them felt too natural. When they fought he felt Baze’s presence like a current parallel to the battle, matching it move for move. Meant to be or chose to be, they were shaped by and shaping the momentum around them. They moved with the Force, as much as Baze struggled to feel it the way that he did.

“It means sharing a life,” Chirrut settled. “What does it mean to you?”

Chirrut felt the air tense around them a moment as Baze chose his answer. Chirrut grinned; he knew this hesitation too well to be worried by it.

“Why are you smiling?” Baze grumbled.

“Because you’re shy,” Chirrut quipped back immediately. “Even after what we did last week in the workshop.”

Baze collided in beside him, pushing him towards the nearest pillar.

“Why do you have to announce that?” Baze hissed. Chirrut laughed, more so at how Baze carefully guided him against the stone than at his indignation.

“Announce to who? There’s no one listening.  Or there wasn’t.”

There were footsteps approaching and Baze’s grip tightened around Chirrut’s shoulders a moment before he regained enough control to let go and step back. Chirrut drew his fingertips along the cool smooth stone, waiting patiently.

“Goodnight, Apprentice Malbus, Îmwe,” a low familiar voice said, amused.

“Goodnight, Master Talewin,” they echoed back, Chirrut more enthusiastically than Baze. Once she’d gone, Baze crowded back over him.

“Announce to Master Talewin,” Baze growled.

Chirrut scoffed and shrugged.

“She’s always known.”

“I know but does she need to _see_  everything.”

 _“Someone_  should see.”

Baze groaned and slumped down over him.

“I see plenty. For the both of us,” he countered.

Chirrut hummed thoughtfully, tracing the line of Baze’s body over his tunic from his thick waist up to his broad chest. It was only ever in an abstract way that he ever wondered what Baze looked like. Handsome, he’d been told which was satisfying despite not having a basis of his own for comparison. He liked what Baze felt like around him, the way the Force seemed stronger when it could move between the two of them rather than extend from him alone. He liked how Baze felt under his hands, steady and solid, the language of his limbs and muscles certain and precise. He liked when Baze won in a spar, and hemmed him in neatly beneath that weight. With both hands, he tightened his grip on Baze’s tunic and tugged him forward in a staggering step.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Baze warned, shifting and regaining his balance.

“Then tell me what you think marriage is.”

“It means knowing where I belong,” Baze replied quickly, annoyance creeping into his voice. Chirrut tilted his head and felt his heartbeat quicken.

“You know where you belong?” he asked. Baze was lost at first; consumed by anger and grief for his family. A brother and sister Chirrut would never know, a mother and father he couldn’t begin to understand how to miss the way Baze so deeply grieved them. Even still, Baze worked his hardest needing to prove that he belonged always with the fear that he wouldn’t past his training. They were already twenty, and while Chirrut wasn’t worried, he knew that Baze was concerned. Baze had always thought that his skill and devotion would mean a quicker passage to becoming a guardian.

“With you.”

Chirrut couldn’t smile though his chest felt filled beyond bursting. The words were as steady as Baze’s every other language. Feeling and knowing and being with one another; he hadn’t expected that hearing it would be another thing entirely. He knotted his hands into Baze’s tunic, twisting the rough fabric as he tried to think of what to say.

“I love you,” Baze said, as though anything contrary was beyond comprehension.

“Of course,” Chirrut nodded agreeably.

Baze’s hand came up against his side and squeezed.

“Tell me you love me too, fool,” Baze urged.

Chirrut broke into a grin, facing the sound of Baze’s voice.

“I love you, fool.”

* * *

 

They’re twenty-one when they’re finally initiated as full-fledged Guardians of the Whills. No one knows what that means anymore; the Imperials seem to come more and more, taking more of the Kyber crystals each day. The crystals were never truly meant to be harvested this way. The Jedi used to come gather them with their young apprentices, a small piece at a time. Their children would have learned what the crystals were, would have tuned and measured themselves against many before selecting one to construct their first lightsabres with. That’s what the stories were. Chirrut had never met a Jedi Knight or their younglings.

The crystals sang, even still, with such a clear clarity that it hurt to hear at times. He wondered if they cried so loudly to hear one another, straining to be heard across all the stars and to remember that they were all connected. The weight of the memories of thousands upon thousands of lives were carried in those crystals. Chirrut could sit next to their voices for hours, the warmth of all that living enveloping around his body, reminders of ancestors carried and watching. It was when they were with the crystals too that Baze seemed most at peace, his own memories stretching across and imprinting, all the weight spreading out across them so that he didn’t have to bear it alone.

There’s not enough time to listen to the crystals anymore.

Whenever they can, the Guardians and resistance fighters move the children off the moon to systems in the Alliance or Outer Rim planets if they’re desperate enough. There are hardly any more children; just frightened teenagers. They were still willing to learn, but you did not need the Force to know that their eagerness came from the pains of loss rather than the desire to find balance. But he could not blame them. He would teach them regardless. So perhaps that’s what it meant to be initiated as a Guardian now, and perhaps what they could teach would save their spirits even in the growing brutality of the violence around them.

The initiation consisted of tests of practical skill as well as a long questioning period with the masters; modelled after the old Jedi ways. The skill tests are for endurance and patience. The questions were to test your memory of your teachings, but more so to evaluate your integrity. When those were passed, it was fasting and a vigil. The fasting seemed a cruel joke when already he passed off a portion of his rations to either Baze or the children. As for the vigil, it was the longest either had ever stayed in meditation; Chirrut could feel beside him Baze waning and tried to carry him as best he could along the threads of the Force that he could reach. Eventually they each found their way to the utter quiet, the smallest core of silence each within one another. From there, he could not tell how long they stayed. At first it was like listening, but the longer they stayed with the crystals, it felt that they became closer and closer attuned to the humming in them. They passed in and out of synchronicity, as though perhaps the crystals were trying to comprehend who came before them with such devotion.

When Master Talewin came and rang the small gong it took him some time to pull back out of it. When he did he felt faint and the exhaustion lay in over his body. It did come with a certain sense of cleanliness. He swayed, falling forward but was caught by Master Talewin. She tipped his head back, ladling water past his cracked lips. He felt disembodied, the Force still close and heavy around him. He leaned into it, and it still caught him too.

The Master pulled him to his feet and began to dress him in the robes of a guardian. Unsure of how they went, Chirrut let the Master guide his limbs, tugging and turning the fabric snuggly around him. The feeling of comfort this came with; Master Talewin had mentored him with patience and good humour since he was a child. When she finished, she raised her clawed hands to his face, cradling him and bending down to touch their foreheads together. The scales on her forehead were large and he could feel the deep line bisecting the split in their direction where he knew they led up to small blunt horns on either side of her head. She said nothing but held there a moment, and Chirrut could feel her willing her good heart across to him. He sent his gratitude back. When they parted, she moved to repeat the process with Baze, leaving Chirrut to listen as the long robes were wrapped around him too.

Master Talewin was old, and not of Jedha. She’d joined the Guardians of the Whills at a much later age than when most. She said she would still see perhaps another forty or even sixty years atop her two hundred. To Chirrut, her age had always meant to him that she’d lived many more lives than most he knew. It made her wise but it also made her more empathetic and lenient. Which is perhaps why, after the other Masters had left she said that she wanted a moment alone with them. Chirrut assumed this was to impart some personal denotation of this moment forward in their lives.

But instead, she took his hand and led it into Baze’s.

“The old Jedi,” she began, her deep voice reverberating in a low frequency through the air that filled his heart with an old comfort, “used to give their apprentices a gift upon accepting their journey together. The Guardians do not carry this tradition forward, but there is something I want to do for you that they do on my home planet when two souls meet and recognize one another in their hearts.”

Between her claws she clasped their hands together tightly.

“If you wish it,” she added.

There was a beat between before they answered in unison,

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said, letting go of their hands. Chirrut took a step closer to Baze, leaning his head against the man’s shoulder. Baze let go so that he could reach across to Chirrut’s shoulder instead, guiding him in close. They were both exhausted, and the robes were unfamiliar on their bodies. But they felt right, too. This felt right. In front of them he could hear Master Talewin light something, filling the room with a sweet smoke. She began singing something in her language, deep and tonal, difficult for him to discern even with his fluency in the tonal local dialect they spoke in Jedha. She’d told him before that her race was capable of hearing a much wider range of sound than most, that there were breaks he could not always hear in the words. The way her voice filled the room ushered out all of the empty, sinking in through his bones. As a child, he’d always been drawn to her singing and her steady notes and felt his heart surge being able to hear this with Baze now.

She continued singing and drew closer, carrying the burning in a vessel as she approached. It was set on the ground before them with a small clinking noise of metal on stone. The singing broke a moment, but he could hear her robes moving as she used something wide to direct the smoke over them in three slow wafts. Smoke in Jedha used to mean the smoking of meats or the burning of incense but now it meant the burning of homes and the charred flesh of laser blasts; this new scent felt restorative. It took a moment for him to realize that she hadn’t stopped singing, the air still thrumming with the sound of her voice though he could not hear it.

When she stopped fanning, he could feel the sound in the air thinning out as she gathered the vessel and put it back on the table. She came back and placed a hand on his shoulder and on Baze’s, drawing them all in together. She leaned down and pressed her forehead to him again and then turned and did the same to Baze. When she drew back she took each their hands in hers again and paused, switching languages to speak in Basic; keeping track of two tonal languages was often difficult for her.

“Now you must each acknowledge that you are joined to one another.”

“…like a kiss?” Baze asked. Chirrut bit back a smile; the exhaustion of their initiation was replaced instead with a giddy energy that hummed in his limbs. Master Talewin made the clipped thrumming noise he recognized as her laughter.

“However you feel fit. If you require some discretion, I will leave.”

“No! That’s not—here,” Baze struggled. But he seized Chirrut’s hand and brought it to his mouth, placing a kiss in his palm, soft like a whisper. His lips were rough against his own callused skin. Chirrut’s fingers curled against the roughness of his beard. His heart was pounding in his chest, the feeling of being something precious and needed overcoming him in a wave. He turned one of Baze’s palms open to his own mouth, sending back the tide.

They dropped their hands together between them but did not let go. Something had shifted, closer now. Standing hardly a breadth apart, Chirrut could feel the closeness of their bodies but deeper still could feel the way the Force moved between them and it felt so near and palpable. Whatever the rules were, this felt right. He breathed in slowly, regaining his calm and settling into the quiet he found so easily with Baze. He tightened his grasp of Baze’s hands; they were joined now. His heart ached. He took a long deep breath, taking a moment to acclimate to the knowledge. There hadn’t been anything he’d ever wanted more and they’d spent so much of their lives purging themselves of desires. But this was Baze and this is what they shared.

His eyes well and he caught it with a grin; he got to cry on his wedding day. There were small wonders still in the world around them.

“When my elder sister got married, that was a part of their ceremony,” Baze explained. “I don’t remember the rest.”

Chirrut gave a slight nod, understanding and hearing the harshness still in Baze’s voice; that knotted frustration of not knowing and grieving the irretrievable.

“It was enough,” he promised.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” Baze murmured. “As it is with you.”

* * *

 

There was more hurt around them than healing or quiet anymore. Something had changed in the Imperial Army’s tactics. They were no longer simply looting the Temple for the crystals. He could hardly imagine what horror it was that the Empire sought the crystals for but it didn’t matter. They thought they understood the crystals and now they would take the Temple.

For Chirrut, this was no deterrent in choosing to continue defending the Temple. But Baze had already been tired for a long time. They’d spent four years defending and teaching. At first it was initiates and children under guardianship of the Temple. As Jedha deteriorated however, they taught all willing to learn to defend themselves. Then with a taste of the fight, discovering that they could do _something_  even if it was only for the dignity of having tried, the people became resistance fighters. Most would say that by existing alone they were made Resistance fighters now, each body in the city a blockade between their ways of life and the Empire. There was truth to that for those who did not run. Baze’s faith waned. He would say that he didn’t need it to teach someone to fire a blaster or to make explosives out of whatever was at hand and whatever they could steal. It was difficult to argue with.

Tonight was the last night that the Temple would stand in their guardianship. They all knew this. Everything had gone quiet outside its walls, no explosions in the city. Everyone was tired or wounded; by now the city officials would have surrendered even if its people did not.

They gathered in the main hall. He was drawn tightly into Baze’s arms, both quiet, listening and waiting for the moment they had to break apart and fight. Around them the other Guardians waited. Chirrut thinks it’s the first time that Baze has been so unconcerned with showing his affection. The Imperials would wait until daybreak, still some hours away. They were leaning against a pillar, withdrawn slightly from the others, Chirrut nested in with his back against Baze’s chest. Baze was warm and smelt of smoke and sweat. With his eyes closed, he felt himself drifting to sleep, too comfortable like this even with the knowledge of what was about to come. They’d been instructed to rest, if they could.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Baze murmured, barely enough to hear, even for him.

Surprised, Chirrut drew forward slightly to sit upright.

“Why do you think you’re going to lose me? Where am I going?”

Baze pulled him back in even closer, thick arms tight around his shoulders as he burrowed his face into the back of Chirrut’s neck.

“You should have left with Master Talewin,” Baze said, muffled in against him. Chirrut’s fingers pressed into Baze’s arm, trying to reach some of his troubles.

“No, my place is here,” Chirrut said, his voice holding steady even as the wave of sorrow crossed between them. Leaving Baze had never been an option. Jedha was his home, the Temple his family and Baze was his _husband._  It wasn’t the same for him as it was for Master Talewin. Her own planet was under occupation; she went on to a fight elsewhere. “The Force will always draw us together.”

“Don’t,” Baze warned sharply, pressing in more tightly. “We decide if we’re together. Not the Force.”

“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me, as it is with you,” Chirrut said softly. Baze made a pained noise. “The Force does not design destiny, it guides it. You already know this.”

“I don’t care anymore. I have you and that’s enough for me.”

Chirrut knew that he could belabour his point but this had become a longstanding compromise. Instead of speaking things that wouldn’t be heard he twisted to face Baze, and reached out to guide their mouths together. Baze’s uncertainty came across to him in a wave. He tried to meet it with his own quiet. Difficult when they drew together so quickly; the kiss deepened, as it was just so easy for them to do and for the sake of comfort couldn’t help but draw himself up onto his knees. Usually if he tried to be so brazen when others were around, Baze would freeze up; too _shy._  He at least refrained from straddling him, which would have actually been the most comfortable position simply given the equation of one another’s stature.

“I will never be lost to you,” Chirrut promised when they broke away. Then he smacked him on the arm, causing Baze to startle. “And you couldn’t misplace me if you tried. Or send me away. You’re too devoted of a husband to disrespect my choices.”

He heard Baze let out a long, frustrated breath.

“You’re a husband who has too much patience,” he groused, “and is too happy testing mine.”

Chirrut laughed.

“We should get married again,” Chirrut mused.

“Again?”

“Well, only Master Talewin knows—“

 _"Everyone_  knows,” Baze cut in. “You were too proud to keep it to yourself for even a week.”

“Only the other guardians know—“

“Every child and their _pet_  knows.”

Chirrut laughed again, and this time he heard Baze’s grudging chuckle join him.

“You’ll marry me again, won’t you?”

Baze sighed.

“Yes.”

* * *

 

The second time they’re married is at a small shrine on the outskirts of the city. The man who marries them remarks that it’s the fifth that day, that with the new occupation everyone’s grabbing onto something while they can. They’re given a place to wash and prepare themselves. This ceremony comes with a document and a wreath of paper flowers that is tied around their wrists. They would have used fresh ones, the priest said, but they’re too precious even if you could find them now.

As is the local custom, they each mark their bodies; a large triangular design on the inside of each of their forearms, stitched and threaded in ink. It’s not something he can see, of course, but he likes how bodily the method feels. He can feel separately each dip of the needle as it breaks his skin and though of course there is pain, he can feel the hand that tugs the thread through too and knows that it’s something present and intimate. Baze is beside him, already marked, and sits close, leaning into him and keeping his arm steady as instructed by the woman as she threads the ink in.

He’s told it’s done in black ink, that it’s the size of his palm. It takes several hours for each of them to finish and it’ll take several weeks to fully heal. There’s a relief in being able to attach some sense of time to something around them.

That night they’re given a room; to celebrate, a gift of thanks for the Guardians of the Whills, they’re told. Baze protests, says there’s nothing left to guard and that they failed. The priest doesn’t care; they’d done what they could. Chirrut accepts graciously for them.

It’s the first bed they’ve had in weeks and for a moment it feels as though they might use it for nothing but an opportunity to rest.

“That would disrespectful to their gift,” Baze mused aloud.

Chirrut barked out a laugh, turning in against Baze and hooking his leg around his thigh. Baze acquiesced easily, moving so that his arm was beneath Chirrut’s head.

“It would be impolite,” Chirrut agreed. He spread his palm over Baze’s chest. Baze hummed appreciatively.

“We can sleep first though.”

“Sleep can wait,” Chirrut said, twisting and pushing himself up and positioning himself overtop Baze, thighs pinning over his waist. Baze huffed out a breath, but his palms came up to rest on Chirrut’s hips, anchoring him in place. Taking it as permission, Chirrut bent over, hands seeking out Baze’s face and his heart started to jump, finding the familiar shape. He pressed a thumb, stroking at his jawline, listening for any protest. He could feel Baze watching him, searching his face for something, maybe seeking some hesitation in his blank eyes or watching for a particular curve of his mouth. Perhaps finding nothing, Baze raised a hand to cup Chirrut’s jaw, thumb gently drawing the line beneath his lip.

“I would marry you a hundred times,” Baze confessed quietly. “Would you say yes?”

Chirrut scoffed.

“Maybe if you’re lucky.”

Baze seized him and came up, flipping them over.

“You already said yes twice, fool,” he said, voice dropping soft.

“Ninety-eight more times you’ll have to ask me then,” Chirrut replied back, grinning.

Chirrut yelped as Baze nipped at the tender flesh on his throat. Whatever effect it was that Baze had taken aim at, Chirrut arched up into him, pressing their bodies up flush against one another. He heard Baze’s breath catch and took the opportunity to rake his hands up over Baze’s back, feeling the curve and move of his body beneath his palms.

Baze grabbed at his wrist, pinning it up over him and followed quickly with the other. Though it made him feel more bare and vulnerable than he already was, Chirrut welcomed the touch, neck arching out further in anticipation. He was descended upon with provokingly soft kisses and a teasing tongue, eking out his body’s language in a prolonged interrogation as though Baze did not already know it’s every contour and point of complimentary fit against his own body. He pressed upwards into the touch, seeking something more solid but finding thrill still in the chase. When Baze released his hands he pulled forward and kissed back furiously. Gripping his hands tightly on Baze’s broad back, he sought out the knots and aches that’d accumulated in the weeks following the fall of the Temple and tried to soothe them.

For a moment he felt a pang of guilt; how could they still have this when so much of what they’d loved and known had burned around them? The guilt had never been enough to stop them though; instead it changed and opened up into something else. He let out a low moan, surprised at the way it felt as though something he hadn’t named were breaking up and apart in him. Baze’s emotions were always brimming at the surface, but his own were submerged deep beneath the veneer of amiable indifference that kept the darker tremors of the Force at bay. But it never meant that he was beyond its reach; a hurt that’d taken root in his chest twisted. They hadn’t had a moment’s peace since the Temple was overtaken. He sighed, and had to part for the briefest moment simply to breathe before he drowned in the affection and the full affront of emotionality that he often held back.

Baze’s tongue, hot in his mouth, his taste familiar and welcome; his hands callused and well-learned in the words spoken on skin. This all felt so different from when they’d been joined the first time by Master Talewin; enough had happened that they felt tested but not broken. A small pained noise escaped his throat and his body drew inwards, his legs drawing up and tensing around Baze.

“Chirrut?” Baze asked, worry edging into his voice. He crowded in closer, keeping Chirrut’s senses grounded. Chirrut jutted his jaw upwards, mouth and nose brushing against Baze’s cheek, the rough hairs of his beard.

“I…” Chirrut tried. He was unsure. In an effort to articulate this expanding sense of quiet he cast out eagerly in search of some thread he could follow in the Force. Sometimes it worked though rarely when the cataclysm came from within.

“You can feel it,” Baze urged. “You’re allowed.”

Chirrut jerked his head to one side; Baze moved them onto their sides and let Chirrut tuck himself in against him. His large rough hand moved in a reassuring motion against his side. Chirrut pressed in against the bare skin of Baze’s chest, and focused on his husband’s even breaths. The feeling lunged forward at him again, a swaying sick that sunk into him like the heat of the midday sun. He hummed a noise to remind himself that he wasn’t hemmed in solely to his own body and that he could place himself outside of it just as well. It helped, like an echo off a cavern wall.

When he was ready to speak he shifted, upwards, drawing their faces near one another again, wanting Baze to be able to read him.

“The only home I’ve ever known has been taken,” he said. “I had not expected to feel it so deeply.”

The backs of curled fingers drew a line along his jaw.

“It’s not all lost,” Baze said.

“No, not all,” Chirrut agreed. “I have you and you are where I belong.”

“I belong at your side,” Baze echoed back the sentiment.

“We belong in this city with these people.”

“If they’ll keep us,” Baze said.

Chirrut smiled.

“If we’re lucky.”

They fell silent for some time. He breathed in the smell of the air from outside, mingling with the faint smell of sweat and incense that clung to their skin. The folded paper flowers rustled in the breeze, hung on the bedpost. In the quiet he was aware of the throbbing where the tattoo had been stitched in under his skin, something he would never see but would always be able to feel in the raised stained scars that’d been made. They were without a home of their own in a city that still called for them to fight, but it was true and would be true that they would have one another still.

Baze shook his shoulder.

“You still want to sleep?”

Chirrut scoffed in surprise then started to draw up. He pressed a palm in on Baze’s shoulder and pushed him onto his back.

“No.”

* * *

 

The city is torn apart, piece by piece. The Imperials never truly took over the city; their only interest was in the Kyber crystals. The insurgents who rebelled against their occupation were not a real threat to their Empire. If this is better or worse they could argue until they were out of breath. If they wanted the city, perhaps they would all be dead. With their focus narrowed, perhaps it let them live, however far on the margins. The city streets were still crowded, now choked too with the Stormtroopers as much as it was with the faithful. They continued to live as best they could.

For those of the Guardians who remained, this meant protecting the people where they could and buying time for the Alliance, and then Saw Gerrera, and then just whomever was left and thought to raise arms against the Empire.

The shadow of the Empire’s star destroyer hovering over the city became omnipresent.

And then, one night, something starts to shift.

Chirrut leaned into it, stretching out his self, thinking that he may have caught some echo from the crystals. He tipped his head back to the other side, and frowned. As though trying to catch the right frequency, he let his body be guided into it. It’d been so long since he’d sensed something so present in the Force that it nearly didn’t feel right. The Force was something close these days, precious and as immediate as the day-by-day they lived by on Jedha. It was there, of course, because it was always there, but the threads of light he followed were easily broken and truly only found their way through in the hum of a battle. This was different. This felt… _hopeful._  It _was_ hope, he realized. The kind that went beyond hoping that one got past the day without inciting the impassive brutality of the stormtroopers, or hoping that they might get through the next battle. The light of the Force had begun to shape and find a way through again.

“Is there something happening?” Baze asked. Chirrut paused, checking to see if there was; but all he could hear was the crowded street filled with the usual shouts and demands as the merchants tried to sell their wares, covering the quieter dealings for information and weapons that lurked below the surface.

“What is it?” Baze asked when he didn’t answer. Chirrut gripped tightly at his staff, twisting it into the dirt. He swayed to one side, reached out and hooked an arm around Baze’s leg, tugging at him.

“It is _hope,”_ he said, the word forming on his mouth with a smile, “real hope.”

He felt the atmosphere go tense around Baze.

“You’re dreaming,” Baze accused.

“No,” Chirrut replied tersely. “I barely recognized what it was at first. There is something coming.”

“No one has come for us, all these years; why would something come now?”

Chirrut let go of Baze, and hunched over, shaking his head. Beside him, Baze sat heavily, the repeater cannon hitting the step behind him with a dull clang. Chirrut remained still beside him, feeling the frustration spill over across to him; Baze didn’t want to hear about hope. He didn’t think himself worthy. Chirrut drew himself back up and shifted closer, so that their shoulders were flush against one another.

“The Force is living, and must struggle and learn as we do to find balance.”

Baze scoffed.

“Then it can fail too.”

This time Chirrut felt the frustration take hold in his self as well. He wished that he could have some way of letting Baze feel what he felt. But if Baze hadn’t been Force sensitive before, his unwillingness to seek it at all had made the distance even greater. While the Imperial occupation had made Baze outwardly harsher it’d made his heart harder too. However, or perhaps because of this, he entrusted what was left of his kindness in Chirrut. Chirrut was perhaps the last thing that Baze Malbus truly loved still.

When Chirrut didn’t insist, Baze subdued his words. Instead, he laid a hand on Chirrut’s back. His fingers curled as he felt the muscles draw tight. Instead of feeling satisfaction in Baze realizing that he’d tread too carelessly, he sucked in a tight breath and tried to reform that fear. He shifted closer, softened his limbs and let himself meld in against the larger man. He frowned, head bumping against the large metal mantle for the repeater blaster and sighed. He straightened back up, feeling restless. He braced himself over his knees.

“It has been a long time,” Chirrut started, switching to their own language, not caring if the stormtroopers overheard. The words felt hard and unused, grinding through his teeth as he spoke them. “I don’t see what you’ve seen but I’ve _felt_  it. It’s deep and rotted, seems like it’s further from change each day that it decays. But something is gathering.”

He moved his hand to Baze’s knee and gripped tightly.

“It’s _hope._ I feel hope.”

Baze didn’t know what to say to that anymore. Perhaps he would have said the old mantra before, or agreed or tried to reach out for it too. But now, Chirrut didn’t feel him try for even that. Faith had given him no comfort for many years as they were faced with endless, pointless murder in the warzone of Jedha. Then too the assassination contracts had taken pieces of them away. Baze always asked him before a kill what he thought of them, trying to at least do damage in their favour. But it was still murder for hire. Each time the darkness coiled around them as they plunged in, something would be left behind.

What had perhaps been the harshest on him though was the isolation. The resistance efforts joined and fractured endlessly through the years. Often it felt as though they truly only had one another. Sometimes that was enough, but Chirrut felt it too.

“I will be here,” Baze settled finally.

Chirrut knew that; his dearest friend, protector and husband. Baze would always be a Guardian at heart and Chirrut would never have to wonder where he stood because it was at his side.

He rubbed his hand over Baze’s knee and then tapped it several times before standing.

“Let’s walk. I’m hungry.”

“Hungry?” Baze asked. His incredulity was noted.

“Hope makes me hungry.”

Chirrut was already turning his attention to navigating the crowd ahead of him, not waiting for Baze’s acquiesce. But when he rejoined him at his side, Chirrut noted that the same reverberation of hope that he’d just felt before seemed also to be working and closing in the distance between them now too.

* * *

 

There were some you met in life who you would know were your family.

That day he heard something across the crowd, something like what he heard from his own staff but another small voice not quite like the others. It reached out and was searching even as the stirrings of another uprising were beginning to tremble through the streets in the footsteps of resistance fighters. He’d only been seeking where they should find themselves when the battle broke. And he’d found them. Jyn Erso, a tangle of a tired heart and defiance with a clear path and Cassian Andor, a man who buried his conflict and tried to shelter others from his growing despair.

“We should follow them,” he’d said cheerfully to Baze.

Baze wasn’t thrilled with this course at the moment, drenched to the bone in rain and struggling to pick his way through the unrelentingly harsh terrain of Eadu. It was bracing Chirrut had to admit, but he was drawn to Jyn’s path as clearly as he’d been to defending the Temple. He heard Baze go ahead of him, spotting a good place to set up. This was too delicate a situation for it to not go wrong.

“We’ve gone too far,” he protested, even as he settled in and began rigging up his blaster for long range. Chirrut set a consoling hand on his back.

“Patience, my friend.”

“Friend?” Baze asked incredulously as he twisted back to face him. “I’m your husband.”

“You’re my friend, too,” Chirrut said, but he was biting back a smile. He began reconfiguring his own weapon. “My oldest and most dear friend.”

“Call me your husband,” Baze grumbled.

“Or?”

“Or I’ll marry you again to make sure you remember!”

Maybe he hadn’t had occasion to laugh for some time because it took a moment for the words to catch up. When they did, the laughter broke out of him, warm and relieved. He paused and covered his mouth; it was unlikely they’d be heard but it would certainly be something to have their cover blown by their bickering.

“I’ll marry you again,” Chirrut said evenly once he’d managed to stifle the noise. “You still owe me ninety-eight more weddings.”

Baze scoffed.

“However many you want.”

* * *

 

Chirrut has no memory of being evacuated off of Scarif. But instead of dying, he’s on a Rebel Alliance med-ship laying on a cot and listening to Baze protesting in their own language while being poked and prodded at by someone who spoke in a familiar low tone. It didn’t sound quite right though; he raised a hand and snapped his fingers beside the offending ear. It sounded further than it should have. Maybe something that would heal, then. He tried to sit up, but instead felt a clawed hand pushing him back down while still trying to talk over Baze. Despite the distracted admonishment Chirrut broke out into a grin, wincing as it strained something across his jaw.

“Master Talewin,” he said, settling back down on the cot. “I’m glad that you’re well.”

The arguing stopped.

“Chirrut!” Baze cried out, more a guttural growl but filled with that deep affection Chirrut was so familiar to. If Master Talewin had been trying to restrain him, she let him through now. Baze took his hand and squeezed and rest his head against Chirrut’s.

“Chirrut,” he said, voice low and rough. He pressed a kiss to his temple, too delicate like he thought Chirrut might not bear more. To be fair though, Chirrut was unsure of his own injuries. The ear; a problem. Perhaps a rib? Or two? Bone-dead tired for certain.

“How bad?” Chirrut asked. His voice was raw, and ground harshly against his throat.

“Considering we should be dead? Not bad,” Baze answered grimly.

Chirrut hesitated before asking his next question, already sensing the answer.

“Jyn and Cassian...” Baze trailed. He took a breath, not needing to go further. “The pilot managed to knock away a grenade before it went off. Lost a hand and leg, but they have a skilled mechanic here for that. No one knows about the droid but it’s dead or reprogrammed by now.”

Chirrut pressed a hand against his chest but had to ease the pressure when he realized that for the larger part much of it was bruised. So Jyn Erso had saved the rebellion and Cassian Andor fought a day in the light. The loss ached but he sensed, as best he could, that they were still present in their own way, their echoes carried through the Force. Still a small consolation for those left living. His heart had that stung feeling, pinched and protesting in his chest. This was the way the story would go and there would be a hundred-hundred ways to share it. But to have lived in the story itself?

It hurt as much as it would matter to the Rebellion.

He reached up, fingers seeking out Baze’s face. Instead he found one of his braids, and opted to tug instead. He thought to say something, but his mouth felt parched and Baze knew anyways. He let go and gingerly shifted on the cot.

“I thought you’d gone,” Baze confessed. Even when he spoke softly his voice had a sharp edge, the anger flaring up from the fear he admitted to. Chirrut nodded. He’d thought it might have been his time too; the Force too knotted and loud with the battle around them. It hadn’t untangled yet either, something starting to take shape across the stars, points shining bright and travelling, gathering.

Master Talewin made a low humming noise that settled in his chest, filling him with warmth against the natural cold of space.

“I heard something call in the Force and I knew I had to get to the surface,” she said. “Your husband; we nearly didn’t make it back out though. Made us go back.”

“For Bodhi Rook,” Chirrut forced out softly.

“We didn’t have time to find the others, I didn’t know where to look,” Baze bristled. Chirrut felt that ache again, knowing that Baze would carry the guilt even if no one cast it to him.

“They may have already been gone,” Master Talewin said. There was a thrumming behind her words; straining, pulling and though it was muffled he was still so glad to hear it. Her voice was the kind that sank in, beyond hearing. He hoped that Baze felt it too and took some consolation. What a wonder after all, that she had been called back to them. He smiled.

He cleared his throat, needing to hear his question aloud even if he already knew the answer. He paused, the anticipation building up in him, excited to hear the words just as he relished hearing the answer. It’d been too long since they had something so tangible to hold. Drawing in a quick breath, he felt as the thrill working up to a higher note, akin to what it was the first time he held Baze, kissed him or when they were first married, the victories he used to trust and the ringing clarity of something coming forth from the shadows of the Empire.

“Baze, tell me,” he said, “the plans; the Rebellion lives?”

“Yes.”

“We’re joining?”

“Jedha is gone.”

“But something else lives.”

He heard Baze sigh even as he reached across to place his hand over Chirrut’s heart. Chirrut wanted to flex into the touch, reach and mend with it but for now he settled with having it at all.

“And we do too,” Baze agreed.

So then, they were settled. They lived, as the Alliance did and for the first time in a long time, their path seemed clear.


End file.
